


Son of a Genius

by overthemoon



Category: Ender's Game - Orson Scott Card, Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Enderlock, Established Relationship, Gen, Parentlock, Sci Fi AU, Space AU, Treklock, possibly
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-16
Updated: 2013-08-19
Packaged: 2017-12-12 00:49:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,543
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/805214
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/overthemoon/pseuds/overthemoon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A mind is a beautiful burden.  So is the fate of humanity.</p><p>Hoping to create a one-man weapon of mass destruction, the British Government kidnaps young genius Hamish Watson-Holmes and enlists him in an off-world military academy.</p><p>Now Sherlock must endanger their lives, defy Mycroft’s orders, and risk the safety of the entire planet in order to save his only son.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Kidnapping

**Author's Note:**

> [This is the origin of the plotbunny](http://valeria2067.tumblr.com/post/50100889987)  
>  Thank you to [Thatworldinverted](http://archiveofourown.org/users/thatworldinverted/pseuds/thatworldinverted) for the beta and #antidiogenes for the wars :)

The knock on the door is wrong.

Hamish freezes, halting his quest to identify the location of his recently removed monitor on the family pet skull. “Look, we’re friends of your parents, can you let us in?” A heavy fist thumps against the door. “We know you’re in there.” Internal panic grows inside as he calculates the odds of Mrs Hudson being currently incapacitated.

The arhythmic banging beats stronger, matching Hamish’s increasing heartbeat.

Hamish scoops the skull up in his arms, shakes his head, blinks, trying not to shiver in fear. If he can just buy enough time, maybe Uncle Mycroft will come. He carefully tip toes upstairs, trying to time the creaking stairs with the banging on the door, and ducks inside his parent’s bedroom.

“Just kick it in,” a thinner, more nasal voice says. Hamish flinches and slides the bedroom door shut.

Downstairs, mens’ voices call “Hello?” The first voice coughs, deep echoes inside his chest. “Watch out!” A sharp crack of metal breaking wood signals that the lock has been broken open.

“Look, kid, we don’t want to hurt you.” Two sets of footsteps thud on the living room rug. “We’re from the government. and just want to have a little chat.”

The government? Hamish hugs the skull tight to his chest, pressing his right ear tightly to the door.

The nasally voice hisses, “What are you doing?”

“Trying to talk the kid down. He’s not stupid. If he raises a fuss, we’ll end up buried in paperwork all of next month for sloppy retrieval.” Deep voice raises his volume. “We’ve got a badge, if you want to see it. Nice and official.”

A shiver of fear went down Hamish’s spine. If Uncle Mycroft had sent them, they would have used the safeword, not a badge. Hamish glances behind him at and spots a mobile on the bed. He breathes out, calculating if he could reach it without alerting anyone of his movements.

“Just search the flat,” Nasal voice says. “There aren’t too many places a six year old can hide.”

Deep voice coughs again, the sound echoing in the flat. “Goddamn dust everywhere,” he wheezes. Hamish frowns. Father was going to be so upset when he came home and found out that someone had messed up his dust collection experiments.

Nasal voice says, “I’ll do the downstairs then, since you’re too busy coughing your lungs up.”

“Fuck you,” the deep voiced man coughs. Heavy footsteps begin to thump up the stairs. Hamish lunges towards the bed, climbing on top to grab the phone and refusing to let go of the skull.

The door BANGS open.

“Ah, there you are,” says deep voiced man. Hamish glances up. Deep voice man smiles at Hamish with only teeth, no eyes, a white mask obscuring the upper half of his face.

Hamish dives under the bed, clutching the mobile tightly in his left hand. He slides the screen open and texts “help kidnapper” to Uncle Mycroft.

“Shh, don’t scream,” the man continues. Plastic wrapping crinkles. “This won’t hurt at all.”

Hamish curls into a tight ball, squeezing the skull against his stomach. Uncle Mycroft will be here soon. Dad and Father will be here soon. Everything will be okay, they promised.

Deep voice man lifts the blanket and grabs Hamish’s arm, squeezing tightly. Gas hisses. “Nighty night!”

* * *

Mycroft’s office has never looked more inhospitably formal. All except one of the window shades are drawn shut, leaving a square of early morning sunlight painted on the dust-free surface of Mycroft’s ornate wooden desk.

Sherlock vibrates with tension as he paces back and forth in front of the single window. “You didn’t tell us,” he spits. “You didn’t stop them either.”

Mycroft looks to where John is sitting across from him an overstuffed armchair, looking distinctly uncomfortable.

“I was not aware of this altercation until it was too late,” Mycroft states. His fingers tap the millimeters of air above the desk surface. “When I did become aware, I was informed by my superiors that I was not allowed to get involved.

John keeps one eye on his husband and one on Mycroft. His right hand clenches and unclenches where it rests on his leg.

“Oh please, when has that stopped you from meddling before?” Sherlock freezes by the window, looking outside. “This has your department's fingerprints written all over it.”

“Hamish’s kidnapping” Sherlock doesn’t say. Mycroft reads the tiny cracks in Sherlock’s mental state through the wrinkles and dust smears on Sherlock’s coat.

Mycroft gives a flat smile, the same smile he gave to John when he lied about Irene being dead. “I assume you’ve heard about the recent destruction of China?” he deadpans. Recent being around seventy years ago.

“Yes?” John frowns.

Mycroft steeples his hands, sliding his palms back and forth. John will never be a genius, but he isn’t completely ignorant of current events. He will understand the sacrifices demanded of war, right? Mycroft sighs, his whole shoulders shrugging for effect.

“The safety of our whole planet could depend on the genius of this one boy.” Surely John understands that the needs of an individual are outweighed by the needs of the many.

“But he’s only gotten his monitor recently taken out,” John protests. “How would they even know?”

“They have access to resources I do not have access to.” Mycroft tilts his head, folding his fingers together. This is the closest he will come to an apology; they all know Mycroft resents admitting to being outmatched. “Regardless, the International Fleet has deemed it appropriate that Hamish should be inducted into their Battle School Program.”

John clenches his fists. “Well, it certainly was nice of them to ask us first,” he says. He gives Mycroft his fuck-you smile. “We do not give permission for Hamish to enter the Program.”

“And we never will,” snarls Sherlock. Sherlock still looks out the window at the London skyline, as if his powers of deductions could zoom in on the location of his son.

Mycroft gives a polite smile, one that doesn’t reach the eyes. “The fate of humanity is more important than your desire to keep your son safe, Sherlock,” he says. “Keep the big picture in mind, would you?”

“He’s just a boy,” Sherlock protests. “He should be doing boy-” He waves his hands and turns around to glare at Mycroft. “Boy, things!”

John chuckles. “Hamish’s version of doing boy things is interfering with your experiments to document how upset you get.”

“That’s besides the point.” Sherlock crosses the room to loom over John in the chair. “And it upsets you too.”

Mycroft coughs politely. Sherlock and John turn to stare at Mycroft: Sherlock’s eyes still burn laser-like while John’s are an amused blue steel. “Is that all you wanted to discuss with me?” Mycroft asks. God forbid they start have a domestic in his office.

“No,” John says. “Though I don’t suppose you’ll listen.” John stands up. “You promised you would stop interfering after we got married. I suppose you think this is some sort of karmic justice for us not letting you be more involved.”

Mycroft looks away from John’s steel eyes. “John-”

“Don’t.” John straightens, every inch the soldier. “There are plenty of other children whose parents would gladly let them join Battle School and the International Fleet. Out of all the children they could have asked, our son was the one who got forcibly taken.” John glances up at Sherlock’s face. “Though I suppose we ought to be flattered that they think so highly of your genetics.”

Sherlock blinks and frowns.

Mycroft closes his eyes and recollects his thoughts. He tries again. “Hamish will receive the best education that money can buy. He will be trained to fully utilize his intellect and will be surrounded by peers who think at the same level.”

John shakes his head and says, “Nope. Hamish will be turned into a pawn for global politics. I-” Sherlock slides his right hand into John’s left. John takes a deep breath. “We. We have had enough of playing those games, if it’s all the same to you.”

“You cannot get your son back,” Mycroft says. Mycroft presses his lips together in a thin line. “I’m sorry, John,” he doesn’t say, because John won’t accept such a plebian apology. Mycroft looks up at Sherlock.

His brother’s face is carefully and unsettlingly blank. Sherlock taps John on the shoulder.

John nods. “Afternoon,” he says, as if this was a normal exchange in which Sherlock would snipe about Mycroft’s diet from the sofa while Hamish sat in John’s lap to watch the conversation bounce back and forth.

The door quietly clicks shut behind them.

Mycroft sighs, shifting uncomfortably in his desk chair. He presses the buzzer to summon Anthea to his office.

“Yes, sir?” she asks, entering the room. She smiles at him, cool and composed, as if Mycroft hasn't summoned her for the upteenth time to help manage his two walking headaches.

Mycroft rubs his temples. “I don’t think they’ll forgive me,” he says. Anthea nods. Mycroft closes his eyes. “When is my next appointment?”

“In two hours, sir,” she says. She slides a tablet with the relevant briefing information onto his desk. “Whisky is in the cupboard behind you.”

“Thank you, dear.” Mycroft nods, dismissing her. Anthea exits, tapping out follow up notations on her data pad.

Mycroft pours himself two fingers of alcohol into a little glass. He raises it in a silent toast. _To the prodigal son._ He takes a sip. _May he bring peace and joy to our planet._


	2. The Negotiation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John make a decision and get angry. Hamish learns what the enemies and allies have in store.
> 
>  
> 
> _“Sod the tea. Are you all right?” John crosses his arms and leans on the counter. He stares at the frozen lines of Sherlock’s limbs as Sherlock hovers his hands over the tea making equipment, not doing anything with them. “You’re not all right.”_
> 
> _“Yes, obviously,” spits Sherlock. “Our son was taken by my brother for use in one of his political experiments, of course I should be fine!” Sherlock slams his hands on the kitchen counter, making the tin of tea leaves jump and rattle._
> 
> _Hamish sniffs carefully, frowning when he couldn’t detect any scents besides the smell of his own salty tears and fear sweat. He shivers as the air conditioning hit him with another blast of stale freezing air._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to thatworldinverted for the beta!

John shuts the cab door as Sherlock darts ahead. The cab’s engine rumbling fades away into the busy electronic beeping and swooshing sounds of London traffic.

Mrs Hudson opens the door before they knock. “Have you found him?” she asks them, wringing her hands and dithering in the doorway. “I’m so sorry, John, Sherlock. I would have tried to stop them but I was lured away and then there was that nasty gas-”

“It’s fine,” Sherlock says coldly. He gives Mrs Hudson a everything-will-be-fine-right smile carbon copied from a net image search. “We’ll find Hamish. We always do.”

Mrs Hudson sighs. “What did your brother say?” she asks, eyes full with concern. “Was he able to help at all?”

“We _will_ find him, Mrs Hudson.” Sherlock nods and brushes past her.

John places a reassuring hand on her arm. “It’s not your fault, Mrs H. Kidnappers happen; we’ve always known that.” He offers a fake smile, feeling the similar bubble of guilt burst in his chest.

Mrs Hudson gives a sad smile in return. “I hope you find him soon. I was planning on baking a cake with Hamish when, well...” She shakes her head and disappears back inside 221A.

Sherlock and John tread up the stairs to 221B and step inside their flat. John feels a painful tug in his stomach at the absence that greets them. Sherlock fumbles when he hangs his Belstaff on the coat hook.

“Fucking Mycroft,” John mumbles. He lets out a sigh and rubs his forehead. “Goddamn it.”

Sherlock steps into the kitchen and John trails after him, not bothering to take his coat off. “You all right?” John asks. Sherlock doesn’t answer, pulling three mugs and a kettle from the cupboard. Sherlock pulls their tin of loose leaf tea out from a drawer and sets it next to the kettle.

“Sherlock?” John taps Sherlock on the shoulder. Sherlock flinches away from the touch.

“You’ll want tea,” Sherlock says. He turns his head away from John. “It soothes you.”

“Sod the tea. Are you all right?” John crosses his arms and leans on the counter. He stares at the frozen lines of Sherlock’s limbs as Sherlock hovers his hands over the tea making equipment, not doing anything with them. “You’re not all right.”

“Yes, obviously,” spits Sherlock. “Our son was taken by my brother for use in one of his political experiments, of course I should be fine!” Sherlock slams his hands on the kitchen counter, making the tin of tea leaves jump and rattle.

John frowns. “I’m just being concerned-”

“We have at most a week until they herd Hamish aboard the next space shuttle, along with all their other nice, legitimate candidates.” Sherlock straightens his back and stares straight ahead at the cupboard. “Of course, he’s being kept probably somewhere we’ve never heard of but that hasn’t stopped us before. If we can prove to the facility crew that in fact, we have not given permission, or failing that, break Hamish and any other whining _genius_ friend he may have made in captivity out-”

“Sherlock, don’t,” John says. He reaches out, gently pats Sherlock’s shoulder. Sherlock doesn’t flinch this time. “Don’t do this.”

Sherlock turns his gaze on John, full deduction blaze pointed at his heart. “Don’t what, John?” Sherlock hisses. “Once he leaves the planet’s surface it will be exponentially harder to find Hamish _and bring him home_ where he belongs. With us.”

“I want Hamish to come home too,” John says firmly. “I mean, if they’d asked for permission I wouldn’t mind, but they didn’t.” He huffs and sighs. “Sherlock-”

“You’re not upset,” Sherlock states flatly. “Not as much as I am.”

“That is patently untrue, Sherlock,” John says, and points a finger at Sherlock’s face. “I am furious right now but unlike you I happen to be aware of how there are bigger things at stake besides our son.” John opens his mouth and closes it, unsure of how to explain and summarize: there are no small summaries for the choking fumes of carelessly piled mountains of human and animal flesh, the clean round craters that once held mountain ranges, and how terrifyingly permanent the Bugger’s handiwork remains after seventy years. All it had taken was one ship to break past the defensive fleet; the international wall of fallen names grew another two miles because of _one_ Formic colonizing ship.

“You don’t think this plan is going to work.” John internally sighs. _Goddamnit Sherlock this is a war we’re talking about here. It’s never that simple._

John presses his lips together. “You’ve had haphazard plans in the past,” John states; Sherlock’s impeccable memory wouldn’t let them forget those, anyway. “We’re going to end up stepping on a lot of important toes in the process and -”

“I don’t care.” Sherlock turns away from the countertop and walks out of the kitchen.

“Sherlock!” John says. He chases after his husband and grabs Sherlock’s elbow just as Sherlock sets foot on the stairs. “Don’t do this.”

“I’m not doing anything.” Christ, when was the last time Sherlock’s voice had gone this deadly deceptively cold.

“Don’t go where I can’t follow you,” John says. He’ll plead if he has too. “Don’t leave me too.” This soldier can’t be an army when he’s the only one.

Sherlock pauses, turns around. “I won’t,” he says. “But we have to find him. We have to.” Sherlock stares at John.

John squeezes Sherlock’s elbow. “I know,” John says. John bites his lip. _I just hope we can keep him too._

Sherlock nods. Sherlock opens his mouth, shakes his head, closes it.

“Yes?” John asks.

“We might need to find another kind of consultant this time. To help us get a foothold in, so to speak.”

John stares at Sherlock, dread collecting inside him. “You mean-” _Please God no._

Sherlock nods. “Yes. We will need to find Irene again.” Sherlock turns his head away from John’s gaze.

The bottom of John’s stomach vanishes. John swallows uncomfortably. “You’re sure?”

Sherlock shrugs, mouth twisting unhappily. “I want-” He turns to meet John’s frown. “He has to come home.” Sherlock blinks and looks away again.

John lets go of Sherlock’s elbow. “All right,” he says quietly. “But I’m warning you right now, I’m not happy about this.” John pushes past Sherlock and heads upstairs to Hamish’s bedroom.

 

 

* * *

Hamish woke, clutching the blanket to him. “Dad?” he says, wiping the backs of his hands on his wet face. “Father?” It’s dark inside the room and Hamish shivers violently. He hates sleeping in the dark.

“Hello?” He turns his head from side to side, unable to make out a single light source. He clutches the coverlet tighter with one hand and lets go with his left, patting the bed around him and jolting in surprise as his hand bumps into a familiar smooth surface.

“Duncan?” he says, confused. He runs his left hand over the skull. “What are you doing here?”

The lights turn on, blinding him. Hamish squeaks and covers his eyes with his hands and blanket. “Ow,” he mumbles. He clutches the skull and curls up under the thin blanket. Hamish’s breathing involuntarily speed up, leaving him huffing strong enough to make the blanket rise and fall with each exhalation.

 _Calm down,_ he orders himself. _You’ll be of no use to Dad and Father if you’re a crying mess._ He forces himself to hold his breath, counting to six, before releasing it and taking another breath.

“Comfortable under there, is it?” A female voice spoke. _Sounds like the surround sound system Dad got for the telly._ “I’m sorry if the blankets are too scratchy, but we thought you wouldn’t mind.” She drawls a little on the “o” sounds, but otherwise her accent sounds similar to Uncle Mycroft’s.

Hamish sniffs carefully, frowning when he couldn’t detect any scents besides the smell of his own salty tears and fear sweat. He shivers as the air conditioning hit him with another blast of stale freezing air.

“You are being monitored for your own safety,” the female voice continued. “While you remain in this facility, we will do our best to make sure that you come to no harm.”

 _Ransom?_ Hamish swallows, hands jittering over Duncan’s smooth surface. _Please find me soon. I texted Uncle Mycroft, like you taught me to._ He opens his eyes and blinks, trying to adjust to the now-filtered blinding whiteness. _I’m scared._

“This is a minor recruitment facility. Hopefully when our presentation is complete, you will be sufficiently persuaded to join our cause.”

Hamish bites his lips, holding his breath again. _Liar. I won’t._ His traitorous heart won’t stop beating double time.

“You know as well as anyone else that the Formics are coming and it is our duty to remain prepared.”

Hamish flinches under the covers, the propaganda videos videos plastered everywhere flashing before his eyes. The iconic single Bugger ship from the First Invasion, grey metal seething with giant green insects, looming overhead as China turned into smoke, cities and mountains shivering and collapsing in on themselves in a cloud of pure molecular matter. The human space fleet, sized like toys in comparison, fighting back with hopelessly outdated technology, individual soldiers felled like dominoes under the onslaught of the one ship. Mazar Rackham’s tiny ship firing at the Bugger fleet, blowing up a single ship and grinding the whole fleet to a halt.

 _They’re sending me to join the International Fleet._ Hamish traces the holes where Duncan’s eyes once must have been. _They’re sending me to fight the Buggers and they won’t stop until I say yes._

Hamish rubs the back of his neck where the personality monitor had once been plugged into his brain, only a small red band-aid left to mark that the monitor had ever been screwed into his skull. _I want to go home. I don’t want to be a soldier. Dad was a soldier and he has nightmares and I don’t want to have nightmares too._

“Please sit up,” the voice says. A few ceiling lights turn off, leaving one wall in shadow. “Our presentation will begin shortly.”

Hamish reluctantly pulls the covers off him and turns to face the darkened wall, settling Duncan in his lap. A projector camera slid out from behind a panel on the ceiling and Hamish stares as the first projected slide appears on the wall.

A collage of surveillance pictures of his parents materializes: Dad and Father chase a criminal down a darkened alley. Dad gets into a taxi, phone held to his ear. Father stands over an abandoned car as he points at a blood splatter, probably telling Uncle Greg one of his deductions.

“You’ve been watching my parents, so?” Hamish said, more bravely than he actually felt. “Anyone with decent CCTV hacking skills can do that.”

The female voice chuckles. The next slide shows an anatomy abstract of two bodies, animation making the blood pump through artificially red and blue veins. “How much do you know about the human body, Hamish?”

Hamish stares at the slides, confusion worsening his fear. He keeps his mouth clamped shut. _I can’t afford to say the wrong thing now._ He traces the jaw line on the skull. _I just want to go home in one piece._

“You’re a _very_ smart boy, Hamish.” The next slide shows pages from a patent for a nano tracking device. Hamish remembers his parents arguing whether or not the invention was ethical or not; afterwards he found a smashed mug in the kitchen. “Have you figured it out yet?”

“You’re watching them,” he says. He might be stating the obvious, but he needs time. “You’re watching them constantly.” Hamish bites his lip and scratches the skull; he refuses to believe that their “persuasion” is that simple.

“Indeed.” The slide changes to further pages of the patent, talking about how the nanoparticles could be loaded with knockout chemicals to ensure that runaways from work farms would be rendered unconscious or incapacitated.

Hamish’s eyes widen and blurts out, “No! You wouldn’t!” The realization shocks him like lightning.

The female voice sighs. “Yes, we would.” The slideshow clicks off. “Do we have your cooperation?”

Hamish shakes his head furiously. “No! It’s not possible! Father would have known! Or Dad! Or Uncle Mycroft or Uncle Greg or Aunt Molly or somebody!” His insides squeeze tight as his anxiety triples. “You’re lying; you’re all cruel liars!” He claps his hands over his mouth, terrified that the last sentence will get them all killed.

He means it though. Can’t take back something that’s true.

“I assure you, it’s entirely possible.” Hamish bites down on his hand, trying to muffles further his deep-hearted protests. “We have no desire to harm our national icons, but it is entirely of our interests to convince you to join the International Fleet.”

“They have to say yes,” Hamish whispers. Hot tears trickle down Hamish’s cheeks. “They won’t. They won’t say yes. Not when they find me.”

“They’ve already said yes, Hamish. Shall I play you a recording?” She sighs. “Sorry for the bad audio quality, we had to go extremely low tech to avoid detection for this one.”

> “Well, [static noises] certainly was nice of them to ask us first,” Dad says. “We [static noises] give permission for Hamish [static noises] to enter the Program.”

Hamish shakes his head. It feels like someone has removed gravity’s effect from his internal organs; everything feels loose and adrift. “No,” he says. “Dad. Dad wouldn’t.” He wipes his face with the backs of his hands, trying to stem the tears. “Father wouldn’t let him.”

“I’m sorry, Hamish.” The female voice sounds genuinely sorrowful, but Hamish doesn’t believe it.

> “I suppose [static noises] ought to be flattered [static noises] they think so highly of your genetics,” Dad says.
> 
> [Static noises]
> 
> “That’s besides the point,” says Father.

 Hamish gives up on trying to stop the teardrops dripping onto Duncan’s smooth surface. “I want to go home,” he says. “You’re lying to me; you have to be.”

 “The recordings are genuine,” the female voice reassures him.

 Hamish pulls the blanket over his head and curls into a small ball. “I want to go home,” he whispers.

 “The next shuttle will depart the planet's surface in seven days. If you are not on that shuttle within seven days, we will activate the chemical trackers and their potent side effects. Is that clear?”

 Hamish doesn’t say anything. _I thought parents were supposed to protect kids, not the other way around._

 “Yes,” he says, after his insides stop floating around in shock. He wipes the straggling tears off of his face. “Clear as a bell.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fandoms squeeing welcome in comments :) Kudos are also sincerely appreciated.
> 
> Edit: Right so the plot device of people having nanobots in their bloodstream is something I took from the Teen Titans Animated TV show, the Apprentice arc. I love Teen Titans to death and only just realized that if I didn't cite the thing then it would be uh. If fandom found me and got angry (not that this fic will ever be popular enough to warrant that kind of rage, I hope.) that would be bad. I've seen too much fandom wank recently and would like to avoid it, thank you.


	3. The Planning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Irene and Greg hear them out. Hamish makes the obvious decision.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to ThatWorldInverted for the beta.
> 
> WORLDBUILDING NOTE: A Desk is a kind of tablet computer. I realize this might be confusing for some people, but desks are tablet supercomputers that are really common in the future. That's it. Okay? If it gets too confusing I might switch to the desque spelling to deconfuse people.

Sherlock hunches over the kitchen table, swiping at his desk’s touchscreen. Ever since his announcement yesterday, he’s been pouring over the net’s forums, trying to track Irene’s familiar traces. John sighs, observing the mess of assorted equipment scattered all over the kitchen. “Won’t take long,” Sherlock says.

John bites his lip. “Text me when you find her,” he says. It’s too damn empty this early in the morning; the conspicuous absence of sleepy muttering and toast crunching feels like broken glass inside his shoes. John shuffles away the tea equipment and shoves Sherlock’s test tubes into the “experiments only!” freezer. His hands freeze on Sherlock’s case files; next to them, Hamish’s desk blinks at him, tiny red light signalling the battery’s imminent demise.

Sherlock says in a disgruntled voice, “She has made more effort to disguise her traces since our last checkup.”

John swipes the screen. _Ask Uncle Greg/Mycroft about monitors_ is printed on Hamish’s desk. John bites his lip and plugs the desk into the charger.

“John?” Sherlock puts down the desk for a moment, reaches an unsteady hand towards John. John breathes out slowly, unclenches his fists.

“I’m going out,” John says. He cobbles together a reassuring smile. “Someone’s got to tell Greg."

* * *

John swings open the door to Greg’s office.

Greg looks up from the circle of desks and computer screens lying on his table. “Hello, John!” he says. “Any luck?” The grey circle’s under Greg’s eyes have deepened, but John still appreciates the tired smile Greg gives him.

John glances around the room, trying to place where any of Mycroft’s listening devices might be. “Coffee?” he says. “You look like you could use a break.” If this conversation winds up in Mycroft’s hands, he’ll break the buggerlover’s nose, British Government or not.

Greg frowns. “Sure, just a mo’.” Greg rises, locks a few desk pads in a drawer. “Sherlock doing okay?” Greg raises his eyebrows. “He’s not off on one of his moods is he?”

“Sherlock’s fine,” John says. Greg retrieves his coat and they walk out, past the horrible pitying stares of Donovan and Anderson.

John pulls Greg past their usual coffee house. Greg protests, “Look, if we’re going to do this, can there be decent coffee, for gods sake.” Greg stuffs his hands into his coat pockets.

“Not in the mood, Greg,” John says. “Come on.” John drags him inside a hipster infested independent coffee shop none of them would dare enter on any other day.

John orders drinks from the cashier, trying not to stare at the flash tattoos of quotes spinning all over her face.

John drags Greg upstairs to avoid the crowd; they huddle over a table on the upstairs balcony, overlooking the street. “Well this is more paranoid than usual,” Greg says. “None of Sherlock’s contacts turn anything up?”

John shakes his head. “I... Mycroft was involved this time.” Greg goes pale. “Indirectly, but still.” John stares at his coffee, not sure if he wants to try whatever ancient 21st century spice that’s been added in. “We’re going away for a while.”

Greg mutters, “I don’t suppose you’re going to come back anytime soon?”

John sips his coffee and grimaces. His phone vibrates in his pocket. Sherlock’s text says:

_Video conference arranged. Starts in 15 minutes. Come home. - SH_

“Sorry about the coffee,” John says.

Greg takes a sip of his coffee and raises his eyebrows. “It’s fine,” he says. He puts the coffee down. “Look. I can’t make any promises or anything, but if you want help-”

John says hastily, “Oh no, it’s fine. We... we wanted to let you know. So you can plan for cases, and all that.”

John texts Sherlock back: _On my way. jw_ John can’t look Greg in the eye right now, not when he can predict the steady warm caring plastered all over Greg’s face. It’s not pity, but all the same, Greg’s caring tugs painfully at his heart.

“You okay?” Greg’s concern makes John’s heart grow heavier. John gives a half smile.

“We will be,” he answers. He hopes so. “But, um, thanks.” He gives Greg a brief handshake and tosses the terrible coffee in the trash on the way out.

* * *

John arrives home to find Sherlock hoving over a pile of hotwired desks scattered over the living room furniture. John automatically says, “We set a house rule that you’re not supposed to put desks anywhere you can sit.”

Sherlock looks up from the semicircle of tablet computers and nods at John. “She’ll be on soon,” Sherlock says. “No time for tea, unfortunately.”

John hangs his coat up, toes his shoes off. “Pity. We would have had an excuse to get the fine china out.” He pads over and settles down on the rug next to Sherlock. Sherlock opens one of the many throwaway accounts they use, and activates the video calling software. John leans against his husband.

“Greg is fine,” John says. “Not that you asked.” Sherlock slumps against John and impatiently taps his fingers on John’s thigh. “Are you sure about this?” Sherlock buries his face in John’s neck as a response. “All right then.”

“This is a scandal of potentially international proportions,” Sherlock mutters. “How could she _not_ be involved?”

Irene Adler’s face loads on the screen. “Hello,” Irene says, giving them a tight professional smile. “It’s a bit early for our yearly checkup, doctor.”

“Mycroft took him,” Sherlock blurts, and leans forward. “You’ve still got some contacts left otherwise you wouldn’t be able to hide from us this easily.”

Irene makes a note on her desk. “Who is him, exactly?” Irene taps her stylus on the table’s surface. “Your urgent request was quite vague, dear.” Irene’s American accent has grown thicker since he last time they talked.

“Our son,” John says. Irene’s professional expression doesn’t change. “ _Our_ son, Irene.” She makes another note on her desk. “On the paperwork, he still could be yours, you know.” Irene puts her stylus down and leans her chin on one hand.

“Mycroft was involved,” Sherlock says. “Can you help us?”

“I told you at the beginning, he’s not my son, he’s your son.” Irene’s expression closes off. “How about... no.”

Sherlock says, “But we haven’t even started in on the details --” He waves his hands. “Sentiment, Irene. For sentiment’s sake. Please.”

Irene sighs. “John, Sherlock. I cut my ties to that life for a reason. I understand your fury but please understand, there is nothing I can do.”

“It’s not as if you’re even occupied-” John squeezes Sherlock’s thigh in warning. Sherlock huffs and stiffens.

“I am occupied, thank you,” Irene says. “Maybe you ought to ask someone who’s genuinely unoccupied, for a change. If I know anything, those military types sit around being bored, for the most part.” She flutters her hand. “Really, you shouldn’t have asked me, dear.”

John swallows down his snappish comments and says, “We’ll look into it.”

Irene bestows a smile upon them.

Sherlock says, “So. What _is_ occupying you then? Best to get as many niceties aside before we go back to a year of avoiding each other.”

“Still consulting. Public relations, it’s a wonderful place to know about all sorts of scandals.” She winks. “Legally.”

John steels himself. He won’t need to beg, will he? “Irene-”

“I’m sorry,” Irene says. She nods sharply. “When you do find the bastards, give them hell, would you?” She signs off.

Sherlock throws the desk across the room hard enough to crack the screen.

John hauls himself upright. “So, we’re back to square one” Sherlock reaches over for violin and begins tuning it. “All right. I’ll be making dinner if you need someone to talk at.” Without getting up from the floor, Sherlock begins playing through Hamish’s bedtime song.

While John waits for the pasta to boil, he makes a note on his personal desk. _Ask Bill for a pint. See if any of the lads have been in trouble recently._

* * *

Hamish stares down at his uneaten meal of boiled pasta. A lady in a white suit smiles at him. She’s been waiting patiently, sliding a spoon into his limp hand when he refused to reach for the food. He won’t eat, not when he can’t tell what else they’ll dare to put in his body. She asks him, “What do you have to say to us, Hamish?” In person, her voice still echoes ice cold, still makes him feel like he could drown in a sea of white.

Hamish looks at the table’s shiny surface and the prepared desk sitting in front of the lady. “Yes.” He exhales. “I’ll do it.”

She gives a sharp nod. “My name is Colonel Moran. Welcome to the Battle School program.” She sticks her hand out for a handshake.

Hamish doesn’t lift his hands off the table. _Sorry, Dad. Sorry, Father._ “When do we start?” he asks. _I’m sorry I’m not brave enough._ “What do I need to do?”

She slides the desk over to him. “Finish reading these,” she says. “Then we can talk.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [stares at comment box and mentally begs that there will be comments] Thank you for all the comments/Kudos, glad you liked it.
> 
> I don't hate hipsters. Sorry if anyone got offended.

**Author's Note:**

> Please tell me what you think! Even if it turns out to be incoherent fandom feels please I want to know.  
> You can find me on [Tumblr](http://overthemoonwriting.tumblr.com).


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